


Black Hole

by Medeafic



Series: Supernova [13]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, Depression, M/M, Sado-Masochism, dangerous people, mentions of cane/flogger/paddle/burning, vague D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-22
Updated: 2011-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-15 20:52:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medeafic/pseuds/Medeafic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris is not fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Hole

**Author's Note:**

> **NB: there is a brief scene in this chapter of non-consensual violence in a sexual setting. On balance, I felt that the incident was not large enough or explicit enough to warrant a Rape/Non-Con Archive Warning, but please feel free to message me if you'd prefer further information before reading the chapter, either through a comment on a previous chapter or[on my LJ](http://medea-fic.livejournal.com/profile).**

“You should call him.”

“Katie, I’m not calling him. Just stay out of it.”

“You look _terrible_.”

“Thanks.”

“You _do_. I’m worried about you.”

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Katherine, stop badgering your brother. Christopher, feet _off_ the coffee table.”

“Sorry, Mom,” they chorus.

“I’ve only been saying it for decades,” she sighs. “Now, does anyone want more shortcake?”

It’s a Monday, and Chris is at his parents’ regular Sunday lunch. They’ve moved it to Monday since it’s his only day off right now. Chris didn’t want to go, but Katie insisted, saying that he’s too thin and he hasn’t been eating.

It’s been a week since he fought with Zach, and there’s been complete radio silence between them. And Chris sure as hell isn’t making the first move. The night of the fight, his fury was dulled by exhaustion and shock. Since then he’s only become angrier. But it’s not the normal, fiery rage he’s used to, all-consuming. This is simply a state of being, getting blacker every day, and it doesn’t seem to be going away any time soon.

“You should call him,” Katie whispers again as she digs into her second piece of cake, and Chris rolls his eyes.

Later that night, much later, when he can’t sleep yet again, he logs on to his computer and does what he’s been doing with regularity: checking up on Zach. It makes him feel like a stalker, but he can’t help himself. He’s noted with satisfaction the drop off of tweets since that night, but the pictures of Zach out at parties or premieres or show openings make his heart seize and his gut twist.

It’s also how he finds out that Zach has cut all his hair off and adopted a buzzcut. It’s so strange to see him like that, and Chris wonders what made him do it. He fantasizes that it’s because of Zach’s grief; outward evidence of the inward pain, an attempt to show remorse perhaps. But in the end he decides it’s probably just because of the heat in New York.

Sometimes it’s too much, looking at pictures of Zach and his friends, so to distract himself, Chris researches sadomasochism. At first he’s not sure what he’s looking for – answers, information, a reason? But the more he finds out, the more confused he becomes. Night after night he wades his way through articles on Freud, Krafft-Ebbing, de Sade, Lacan, Nietzsche…each article leads to another and another and another.

But he avoids Jung. He’s decided he’s never going to even think about Jung again. In fact, if he knew where Jung was buried, he’d be inclined to go spit on his grave.

At the end of it, the only thing he knows for sure is what he _doesn’t_ believe. He doesn’t believe Zach’s sadism started because he chewed on things when his baby teeth came in. And since Chris wasn’t spanked as a child, he’s pretty sure his own tastes didn’t develop from that either.

Through his Googling and reading and research, he also finds sites that he knew existed, although he’s never bothered to look at them before. Alt.com. Collarme.com. Fetlife.com. And night after night, when it hits three am and he still can’t sleep, and Zach hasn’t called or texted or emailed or done anything to suggest he gives the slightest fuck about Chris, these sites become more tempting.

But to his own shame, Chris still can’t let go. He does it first thing in the morning, before he’s still really awake, so he can blame habit, but he still does it: still marks in the _ZQ_ on his ass faithfully. For about three seconds after he does it, it makes him feel good, and then everything crashes down again. Everything is black again.

He doesn’t know what to do with the journal he wrote for Zach. Burning it is his first instinct, but it feels like that would be self-immolation. He puts it away in a drawer, underneath a stack of old bills. He’s tempted, too, by the thought of hurting himself, even pauses one night in the kitchen and looks at the knife block. But he’s still too used to Zach’s mandate against harming himself, even though he hates to admit it. He puts the knife block away in a cupboard.

  
***

  
Chris dates. He goes out with ingénues, starlets, celebutantes. His publicist sets up a new one almost every night, now that Chris is acquiescent. But it takes four dates in seven days before he realizes something: he’s single. He’s a single guy; Zach has dumped him. And he used to be straight, and these girls are willing.

 _So, why not?_ he thinks. _Why not?_

_Because you aren’t ready, and it would be taking advantage, and you’re not a complete jerk. Only a moderate jerk._

_I am a male with a working penis. I’m ready._ More _than ready._

 _Just keep it in your pants, Pine. Wait a few weeks at least._  
  
And so he dates, casually, but he still can’t bring himself to sleep with them. And he hopes, every time the paparazzi photograph him with a new date, that Zach sees the pictures and wonders. Chris hopes he sees them and feels the same buckling pain inside that Chris feels at seeing photographs of Zach.

One night, he’s set up with an ex-Playboy Bunny – she’s blonde, shapely, and whip-smart, he discovers. She has a wicked sense of humor, although none of his laughs are really genuine. He just can’t laugh these days, can’t find the fun in things like he used to. But he likes her.

He likes her enough to go back to her place after the nightclub, into her bedroom and strip off her clothes. Her body is beautiful: warm, smooth and soft. She’s completely hairless, and he’s grateful for it. Any kind of hair, he thinks, would make him think of –

 _Don’t think about him. Don’t you even think his name._  
  
He’s reminded suddenly, after he takes his own clothes off and she coos appreciatively at the size of his cock, that he still has a _ZQ_ sharpie mark on his ass. But he figures it’ll be easy enough to distract her. He pushes her down on the bed, relishing the flowery scent of her hair and the way her breasts – fakes, but good fakes – press into his chest. He can’t wait to get inside her, and she laughs at his haste.

“Been a while?”

“You have _no_ idea. But don’t worry – I can control myself. Won’t come until you do.”

“Well alright, then, stud,” she grins. “Let’s get this party started.”

He pulls back a little and grabs his dick, lining up. _No lube. No need for freaking lube, thank all that is holy –_

“Hey,” Lily says uneasily, wriggling backwards and away from him. “I know you’re a big movie star and all, but you still need to wrap up if you want to fuck me.”

Chris looks down at her, frowning. “Oh, my God,” he says. “I’m sorry. Of course. Sorry.” He’s getting flustered. He’s been having unprotected sex for so long that condoms have actually slipped his mind. “I’m sorry, I forgot.”

Lily looks moderately alarmed.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I…I don’t have any protection.” Suddenly he’s thirteen again, barely aware of the mechanics of his own body, let alone the female form, and about as experienced in sex as a teddy bear. A _virgin_ teddy bear.

She presses her lips together, unimpressed, and makes a little _hmph_ noise. “You seriously don’t take rubbers when you’re going on a date?”

“I’m sorry. Really. I just didn’t think…”

“You didn’t think I’d be so easy?” She’s joking, but he still feels bad. “Go look in the bathroom cabinet, I should have some in there.”

“What did you mean – a big movie star?” She looks at him like he’s crazy. His erection is dying. This is pointless. This is not who he is, not any more. “Look, I think I’d better go.”

  
***

  
 _Inishmore_ ends. Five days before the last show, at the talkback afterwards, a woman asks why the cast’s accents aren’t as good as the Broadway production, and that’s it for Chris. His enjoyment of the play completely dissolves. His last few performances are perfunctory and empty. After the last show, he rents a Jeep and drives straight to Mexico without telling anyone, stopping only a few times for a brief nap, until he hits Puerto Vallarta.

He rents a villa and calls Katie the next day. She screams at him about his recklessness for a good five minutes before telling him he’s a lucky son of a bitch to have escaped a mugging or worse on the solo drive down, and then spends another ten telling him how concerned she is over how he’s handling things.

“Katie, just _butt out_ ,” he snaps eventually. “I’m nearly thirty years old, I’m not your kid brother anymore.”

“You’re always going to be my kid brother, Chris, because I’m always going to be older and wiser than you. And I love you. I’m worried about you. _Promise_ me you’ll go to see someone when you get back. A counselor, or a therapist.”

“I don’t need to be psychoanalyzed!”

“I’m not talking about psychoanalysis, I’m talking about going to see someone and getting things off your chest.”

“I. Am. Fine.”

“You are _not_ fine, and that’s my professional opinion, actually. You’re struggling, and I think you need to talk to someone.”

“ _You_ , I suppose?”

“No, not me. That would be a breach of my ethics. But you need someone.”

Chris has never been more aware that half his family are mental health professionals. And never more annoyed by the fact.

“You’re going,” Katie says. “Or else I’m going to bug the hell out of you until you do, and you _know_ I will.”

He sighs. “Fine. Whatever.”

“I’m making you an appointment.”

“What _ever_ , Katie. I gotta go. I’m tired.”

“You better take care of my baby brother while you’re down there, okay? And get a plane back, for God’s sake.”

“Okay, _okay_.”

While he’s down there, Chris finds it hard to stop thinking about Lily, or rather, about the not-sex he had. He decides he’s going to test himself and see if that experience was just an aberration. Because it’s not like he’s totally gay now. He’s always appreciated women, and he knows that hasn’t changed. So if it’s not that, he thinks, perhaps it’s the _kind_ of sex.

And so he searches online and finds Annika. Annika describes herself as a Dominatrix, and promises discretion and fun. She will not fuck you, but she will make you feel good.

Chris remembers, all of a sudden, the sensations. The pain turning into pleasure. A wave of longing hits him, and he decides it’s probably a sign. She might not fuck him, but at least he can see if the pain still feels good.

The only thing that’s stopping him is the possibility of being sold out to the press. He calls Annika, long distance, after a few tequila shots for courage, and explains his situation.

“I wouldn’t be in business very long if I sold out every A-lister that walked through my door,” Annika says, amused. “But I’m more than happy to sign any confidentiality agreements you’d like your lawyers to draw up. I like to make sure my clients feel protected.”

Chris envisions having that conversation with his publicist and lawyer, and feels nauseous. “I’ll see,” he says. “I’ll see how I feel. When can I book in?”

“There’s a wait, unfortunately.” She names a date two weeks away.

“That’s fine.”

“And what name should I put it under?”

“Christopher,” he says. “No! Wait. Sorry. Chris, just Chris.”

After he gets back from Mexico, he sees the therapist Katie set him up with, but it’s hard. He doesn’t want to mention the things that he did with Zach. He doesn’t want to talk about the things he’s planning to do with Annika. So he spends most of his time making up problems and pretending he’s conflicted about his career. He can tell the therapist thinks he’s lying, or not being open enough, or whatever, but he doesn’t care. He’s starting to think he’s been put off therapy for life.

But although it doesn’t help much, he keeps going, because Katie will kill him if he doesn’t.

He arrives, full of nerves and without any confidentiality agreements, for a one-hour session one afternoon with Annika. She is as described: beautiful, buxom, blonde. She’s asked him to come ten minutes earlier to discuss what he might like to do: “I prefer face-to-face negotiations. The phone is too impersonal.”

And so they talk. “What are your limits?” she asks him, and Chris has to think hard.

“I don’t really know,” he admits eventually.

“Everyone has limits,” she laughs.

“My last – the last person – I never really…I never quite found a limit.” He stumbles over his words, and from the way Annika looks at him he’s pretty sure his expression is giving everything away. “I mean, I safe-worded when I needed to, but…that was usually just to give me some time to come to terms with something.”

“What are your safe words?”

“If I need to slow down, ‘too drastic’. If I need to stop, I say…” He hesitates.

“Everything you say in here is confidential, Chris. I understand why you need to be careful, but I can assure you –”

“Enterprise. My stop word is Enterprise.”

“Maybe we can start easy today. You say you enjoy pain. Some kind of corporal punishment?”

“Not a cane,” he says quickly.

“So you _do_ have limits.”

It’s not a limit, it just reminds him too much of Zach. But he nods, agrees.

“And it’s just pain today, right? Rather than submission?”

He hesitates. “Just the pain, right now. That’s all I’m looking for.” A thought strikes him again, and he swallows, tries to sound casual. “And by the way – I have a mark on my ass, a sharpie mark. Just ignore it. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Annika suggests a flogging. Zach never really did anything like that, not often, because it didn’t make Chris scream the way Zach liked to hear.

But he’s not with Zach anymore, so Chris decides to do whatever he likes.

He doesn’t like the flogging. It’s not painful, not the way he likes it. The suede tongues of Annika’s flogger do nothing more than slap at him lightly. It’s like a tingling massage more than anything else.

“I need something – more,” he says. “More painful.”

“I have a paddle,” Annika suggests. He nods; they try it.

“Still no good,” he says, frowning.

“A riding crop?”

He hesitates. It’s getting a little too close. But he’s always liked the riding crop. “Yeah. Let’s try that.”

It’s as good as he’s going to get, he decides, although Annika is hesitant to use the kind of force he asks for behind each blow. Eventually he persuades her to give it her all, and at the crest of each wave of agony, he can pretend for a split second that he is not paying someone to do this to him, and particularly that he is not paying a blonde woman in a PVC corset to do this to him.

A few times he sees the precipice before him, and he wants to jump into it, go flying, but his feet are too anchored to the earth. At the end of the session, he’s physically aroused, but feels empty inside.

“You’re pretty hardcore,” Annika tells him. “Most of my clients prefer the domination side to the pain. This has been educational for me. Thank you. I think this experience will help me shape better sessions in the future.”

Chris is surprised. “But you’ve been doing this a long time.”

“Sure. But we never stop learning, right?” She smiles, and he automatically curves his mouth in a fake smile back at her. “I thought you might go into subspace there a few times. That doesn’t usually happen the first session with most of my clients.”

“I couldn’t get there,” he says. “Not quite.” It’s frustrating.

“Would you like to book a second session?”

“I don’t think so. Thank you, though. You were great.”

  
***

  
For his next tests, Chris joins up on all the fetish dating sites he can find as M seeking M. He writes two vague profiles, detailing the things that he likes – one as a top and one as a bottom. He considered filling just one out as a switch, but he figures he’ll get more traffic with separate entries, and besides – if he’s going to dominate someone, he doesn’t want the distraction of the other person watching him for signs of weakness. If they believe him to be dominant, he _will_ be dominant.

The only problem he still has is being recognized, but this is LA, he argues to himself. It’s not like celebrities are a rare breed. He’s weighed up the pros and cons and decided that his career is not as important as finding peace. Finding a place.

He’s become reclusive, he knows, but he doesn’t want to see anyone. He wants to be left alone. Having the people he knows look at him, look _through_ him, like life has blown a hole right through his middle, makes everything feel worse. So that night when someone knocks on his door, he’s inclined to ignore it. But last time he did that, it was Katie, and he’d forgotten that he was supposed to be seeing her for dinner, and she was so worried that she used her spare key to get in and _cried_ when he was sitting there in the dark living room. And then she went ballistic. So he’s promised her he’ll always answer the door if he’s at home. Knowing Katie, she’s testing him.

But it’s not Katie.

“Corey? What are _you_ doing here? I – wasn’t expecting you.” It’s the stupidest thing possible to say – of course he wasn’t expecting him.

Corey smiles, broad and open. “No. I guess you weren’t. Can I come in?”

Chris hesitates, but then says, “Sure,” and moves back to let him come in. Corey has never been in his apartment before. “Do you want a coffee or something? A drink?”

“Just a chat.”

Chris waves his hand towards the sofa, and tries to pretend it's perfectly normal to have dirty dishes stacked everywhere. Corey sits. They look at each other, and then Corey, unexpectedly, grins.

“I thought we had a deal, man?”

“Sorry?”

“You were going to give us a heads-up.”

“Oh.” He shifts in the seat. “Well. I didn’t get a chance. I’m sure Zach spoke to you, though.”

“You know,” Corey says, sitting back comfortably, like he’s been visiting Chris for years, “I didn’t ask that stuff just for Zach’s sake. I wanted to make sure you’d be doing okay too. So how are you doing, buddy?”

 _I’m not your buddy_. “I’m fine.”

There’s a silence between them, and Chris tries to make it as frosty as possible, but it’s hard to resist Corey’s good-natured face and warm eyes.

“Okay, I’m not fine. But I’m surviving.”

“That’s no way to be,” Corey says softly. “You can’t patch things up somehow? I know Zach can be –”

“No.”

“Okay. I’ll keep my mouth shut, for a few minutes anyway. Hey, do you like bowling?”

“Um. Not really?”

“Indoor rock climbing?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Thought we could do something together. And really, truly, I promise – I’m not hitting on you.” He grins.

“I don’t think he’d like it, would he? You hanging out with me.”

“Well, lucky for me I’m a free agent. Zach doesn’t own me.” Chris winces. Corey doesn’t notice, or pretends not to, and keeps talking. “And, I don’t know, Pine. Okay. I guess this is a really bad attempt to stick my nose in and find out what went wrong. See if I can fix it up, maybe. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. _Way_ over the line. But screw it, I’m an honest guy, and you’re better off knowing my ulterior motive up front.”

Chris gives him an icy glare, but it has no effect. “There’s nothing you can do. He made it pretty clear, we’re done. And he was a total asshole about it, too, so –”

“Hang on,” Corey says carefully.

“He _was_ an asshole, and I’m not going to pretend –”

“No, not that. I agree. Zach has the power to go from placid to complete asshole in less than three seconds. But what do you mean, _he_ made it pretty clear?”

“I’m not going to tell you fucking word for word,” Chris snaps, the pain shooting through him again. He wonders why Corey looks so surprised. He’s the world’s most unrepentant busybody, but surely even he can’t think that Chris is going to perform an autopsy for him on a private break up.

“Chris,” Corey says. “I think I owe you an apology. We thought – Neal and I – we thought it was you.”

“What was me?”

“The breaker-upper to Zach’s breaker-upee. We thought you broke up with him, not the other way around.”

Chris stares at him, and feels a welcome surge of righteous anger rolling over him. He sits forward in his chair aggressively. “If he’s going around telling people –”

“No, it’s not like that,” Corey says quickly. “He didn’t say anything. He just let us think whatever we liked. And because in the past it always happened that way, we assumed…Sorry, man.” He looks apologetic, and then mystified. “But why would he – oh. Right. You don’t want to talk about it.”

Chris looks at Corey and thinks about talking it out. Shakes his head. “No. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Do you want to know how Zach’s doing?”

He does, from the very depths of his soul. He wants to hear that Zach is suffering, that he’s a walking zombie who can’t sleep and can’t eat, that he’s dead inside. But he’s afraid beyond reason that Corey will say he’s doing fine.

“No. I don’t want to know how he’s doing. I don’t care.”

“Okay. Then you wanna go grab a drink?”

“I think…thanks for coming round, but I just need some time alone right now.”

“Well, hey, man, fuck you too,” Corey laughs – and Chris laughs with him, just a little. First real laugh since that night, though. Corey stands up to leave. “So –”

Chris whacks him with the heel of his hand, right in the forehead. Corey looks stunned. “Sacred head slap, right?” Chris says. “Don’t tell him anything about this. Me.”

Corey laughs. “Fuck me, little Chris Pine all grown up and taking advantage. Fine. Whatever. Sneaky bastard.” He talks the entire time out the door and down the corridor. “Okay, I’ll let you mope. But I’m in town, so call me. You have my number, right? Good. Seriously, call me. I’m not hitting on you. We can do something completely non-romantic. I’ll see you, Pine. Stop being so ridiculously good-looking.”

Chris shuts the door, shaking his head at Corey, but he can’t stop the small upturn of his mouth.

When he checks his emails later, he has fifty-four responses from the sites he’s joined. One for each week of the year, if he felt like it, and a couple of spares.

_Fuck you, Quinto. I’m in demand.  
_

***

  
Chris stops going to therapy. He tells Katie he’s all talked out and, although she clearly doesn’t believe him, she lets it go, satisfied with his efforts at least.

And he commences his tests. Most of the responses arrive with photographs of a hard cock, and after sorting through them, Chris is beginning to wonder whether it’s possible to overdose on dick.

But then he finds Byron. Byron describes himself as a romantic at heart, who loves poetry and is an experienced sub. He’s young, but Chris doesn’t think that’s a problem, and at least they’ll have poetry in common. And if he’s as experienced as he says – well, at least one of them will be.

He goes over that very night. In the flesh, Byron is beautiful in a sensual way, with full red lips and green eyes. He is olive-skinned and reminds Chris entirely too much of a Greek god. But when he sees the nervousness in his green eyes, it makes Chris feel better. Feel charitable.

“Hi, I’m Chris.” He watches the green eyes go wide, the inevitable recognition, and for a second wonders if this was a big mistake. But the kid holds it together.

“Byron. Come in.”

He’s dressed in low-slung jeans and nothing else that Chris can see. The house is opulent; in a good part of town although not the best. It strikes Chris suddenly that Byron still lives at home.

“You want a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Pot?”

“I don’t play under the influence.”

“You mind if I smoke a cigarette?”

“I guess not. Byron – I just want to make sure, okay? We’re not going to be disturbed, are we? By your – roommates?”

Byron shakes his head. “They’re out of town. It’s just us.” _It’s just me and some random guy I met online_ , Chris translates. And he’s angry, suddenly, that Byron is so seemingly careless about his own personal safety.

“You do this a lot? Hook up with sadists you meet online?”

“Sure,” Byron says, looking uncomfortable.

“How do you make sure you’re going to be safe?”

Byron shrugs. “I don’t know. Luck? Besides, maybe I’m a serial killer. You don’t know. And _you’re_ still doing it.”

“That’s different.” _I know how to take care of myself._

The kid approaches him, holding the lit cigarette out before him like a beacon. “You wanna get started?”

Chris looks at him, confused, as Byron waits with his hand outstretched expectantly. Then he gets it. “Oh, _hell_ no. I _know_ you don’t think I’m putting that out on you.”

Byron frowns. “But why not?”

“Why would you even think –” He can see Byron getting defensive. “Is that what you usually ask for?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes, I guess.”

A horrible realization dawns on Chris. “Look – don’t take this the wrong way, but have you ever actually done this before? Subbed, I mean.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Byron snaps. “Of course!” Chris holds his gaze until the edifice crumbles. “Okay, maybe not so much. But I’ve read a lot.”

Chris takes a deep breath. “I’d just like to be sure here, I’m not criticizing you – you haven’t actually done this with _anyone_? Not yet, anyway?”

“No,” Byron says sullenly.

“Okay. Well, first thing you should know is, I don’t go around putting out cigarettes on people I’ve just met. And if someone is willing to do that to you right after they walk through the door, you should probably run like hell. I mean, I don’t even know you, right? And you don’t know me.”

 _I know who you are_ , the kid’s eyes say, but he just shrugs.

“You don’t know me,” Chris says firmly. “And all you _do_ know about me is that sometimes I like kinky stuff. There’s no open-door policy for me to do whatever I like, though, just because you’re subbing.”

“I just thought –”

“I’m not saying we can _never_ do it. I’m saying we need to build up a bit of trust between us before something like that. I mean – I don’t even know your last name.” _And frankly, I don’t think I know your first name either_ , he wants to add, but there’s not point embarrassing the kid. If he wants to call himself Byron, Chris has no problem with it.

“My last name is –”

“No. You don’t need to tell me. Not right now. It was just an example.” Because no way is Chris going to admit to his own full name, even though the kid clearly recognizes him. “But maybe we could talk a bit. I can tell you what I like, you can tell me the kinds of things you’d like to try, and we can negotiate something.”

Byron is brightening up. “Well, I – I like burning. Which is why I thought you could do the cigarette on me.”

“Okay.” Chris tries not to cringe.

He’s tried burning with Zach before. It seems like such a long time ago now. Zach had him standing in the middle of his LA lounge room with his legs spread and his hands behind his head. Zach dimmed the lights a little and lit a sparkler, making patterns and words and symbols in the air until Chris was laughing for no other reason than how pretty the lights were and how in love he felt.

“Beautiful, right?” Zach asked once the sparks stopped and the spent sparkler dulled slowly in his hand from orange-red to nothing. “Hold still.”

And he pressed the metal briefly into Chris’s skin, down his inner thighs, again and again. The pain was a scream, Chris remembers. He could _see_ it, white and jagged, tearing through, overloading his nerves and leaving him trembling. It left marks on him for weeks, but they faded eventually.

Chris isn’t sure if he could actually do that to someone else. To himself, sure. But even knowing that Byron likes it – it seems _cruel_. Unnecessary. And he’s pretty sure that cigarette burns are going to be worse than sparkler burns.

But the kid is opening up to him; it would be mean to shoot him down in flames. So to speak. “Do you like it _only_ with cigarettes? Because I don’t know if that’s very hygienic. I’d have to check it out. Google it.” Byron looks blank. “Whatever we do has to be as safe as possible,” Chris explains. “So that you don’t end up with injuries or with infected wounds.”

“ _Ew!_ ”

“Well, yeah.” _Oh, God. Was this what I sounded like to Zach when we started?_ He asks patiently, “What kind of first aid supplies do you have? We should get them together before we do anything.”

By the time Chris has gathered together Bandaids, bandages, Neosporin, and whatever else he can find, he’s ready to gag the kid. Question after question after question – _You really like this stuff? What else do you like? Cutting? Seriously, you cut someone like that? What do you do after you cut them? What do you mean, drop? Really? It’s that bad sometimes? So why do you do it? What’s it like to –_ but Byron is so delighted and so excited that it would be mean not to answer, as best he can anyway.

Eventually, though, it has to stop. “Byron, _please_. If we’re doing something, we should do it, and maybe I can answer some more questions afterwards.”

“Okay. Sorry. What do we do now?”

Chris looks at him, all gangly limbs and just-past-teen-years enthusiasm. He feels a rush of tenderness, and he knows. He knows he can’t. “You know what? Maybe we _should_ just talk.”

Byron’s face falls. “Oh. Am I not doing it right?”

“You’re doing fine. But you seem to want to talk more than do right now, and that’s okay, that’s perfectly fine. We can talk.”

The expressions crossing the kid’s face are clear enough that Chris feels like he’s reading his mind: _I want to ask more questions; I want to try actually doing this for the first time; I don’t want to fuck it up; I_ really _want to ask more questions._ And his eyes drop to Chris’s crotch. He licks his lips. _I want to fuck_.

“Let’s talk,” Chris says quickly. “Ask away.”

It’s hours later when he gets away, and he knows he’s never going to see Byron again, but at least he’s done something good for the day. He’s made one person a little wiser, and possibly safer.

 _Would you be proud of me now, Zach?_ he wonders. But he erases his mind again as the pain hits his heart. _No thinking about that, not anymore._

  
***

After Byron, Chris decides that maybe he’s just not cut out to be a top. He didn’t feel any huge desire to make the kid hurt, after all. When Zach got the urge, Chris could see it in his face, in his eyes. The predator that he kept locked away inside, flitting into Zach’s expression and away again immediately. And the one time Chris wanted to hurt Zach was under special circumstances. He tries not to think about it too much, though; puts Zach out of his mind.

Besides, what Chris wants, so badly, is to hurt again _himself_. To feel physical pain instead of emotional. After briefly feeling better by helping Byron, his mood has spiraled again into blackness.

Katie is coming around too often, throwing phrases like _flat affect_ and _depressive state_ at him, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s tired of everything. The insomnia is gone, and he sleeps twelve, thirteen hours a night now. The only meal he has the energy to make is cereal. Showering takes up so much effort that he actually considers moving a plastic chair into the stall. The only thing he can think of that stirs a spark of interest is finding someone to hurt him, because at least that way he’d feel something.

So the next person he picks is a male dominant who found Chris’s entry on Craigslist, and who says in his email that he likes to _make little boys my biches_. “Biches?” Chris wonders, and is just about to Google to see if it’s an exotic BDSM term he hasn’t come across when he realizes it’s a typo. “Ohhh. _Bitches_.”

Chris isn’t sure if he’s what this guy would consider a little boy, because he’s just about to turn thirty. But he’s lost a lot of weight since the break-up, so maybe that balances it out. He figures, what the hell, and emails back, sets up a meeting at the guy’s house. He knows it’s stupid, and that he should vet things more carefully, and he thinks about Byron. If he knew Byron was doing something so dumb, he’d get mad and try to talk him out of it. But getting mad at his own actions seems like a lot of effort, and besides – Chris can take care of himself.

He arrives there on a Friday afternoon, and knocks firmly. He’s worked out a game plan – he’s going to list everything up front, so the guy will have it all clear. It seems like the smart thing to do.

The door opens, and Chris smiles his full-wattage smile, although he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hi, I’m Chris.”

“ _Chris_ , huh?” The guy sneers, and Chris is left wondering what’s so offensive about his own name. “You can call me Master.” He’s big, taller than Chris and stocky, a wall of muscle and leather. He’s not bad looking, but he’s not Chris’s type either.

“I’d…rather not, if you don’t mind.”

“You one of those traditional types or something? You want me to break you before you call me Master?”

“No, thank you,” Chris says politely. “I just don’t want to call you my Master when you’re not. Or Sir, either,” he adds preemptively, as the guy opens his mouth again. “I’m sorry, but I’m not into that.”

He grunts. “Whatever. I’m Jake.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Jake looks at him, closer, and Chris thinks he’s about to recognize Captain Kirk. But it’s not that, he realizes – Jake is just checking him out. Seeing if he’s worth the time. “You coming in, or what?”

Chris hesitates a moment before he crosses the threshold. He knows there’s something not quite right here. What he’s trying to figure out is whether he cares. The hallway is dark, but clean enough, although Chris doesn’t know whether serial killers are any more or less likely to be neat than the general population. Probably more, he thinks. Orderly, so they can get away with it for longer.

“Are you waiting for a fucking parade?” Jake calls from another room, and Chris shuts the front door and follows the sound.

Jake is in the bedroom. It’s not well-lit, and it takes a moment for Chris’s eyes to adjust. There’s a bed, unmade, and a wall full of toys. Chris stares at it. It looks like a hardware store. Everything is hung up on hooks and – and everything is outlined, so that Jake can keep it in order.

It’s creepy. But Chris can take care of himself.

“So I don’t do scat, watersports, anything degrading or humiliating,” he says. _Certainly not with you, anyway_ , he thinks privately, and wonders again idly whether he should walk away. But he’s here now. “I don’t mind pain, as long as you respect my safe words.”

“Painslut, huh?” the guy leers.

“No collar, no leash, no blood play, no barebacking,” Chris recites. “And no asphyxiation.” The man looks blankly back at him, so Chris adds, “Breath control play.”

“If that’s what you mean, why the fuck don’t you just say that instead of using fancy words?”

Chris, who does not consider ‘asphyxiation’ to be particularly fancy, blinks. But he’s not here to make someone else feel stupid, and he couldn’t care less anyway, so he shrugs. “Sorry.”

But he’s reminded of a conversation he and Zach once had, not long ago.

“Why do you always say the full word, sadomasochism?” Chris asked. “The books just say S&M.”

“Don’t you think it’s a shame to replace an elegant, exquisite word like sadomasochism with something like _S &M_?” Zach practically sneered the abbreviation. “There’s so much beauty in what we do, I don’t like to denigrate it with some pop-culture nickname. A word like ‘sadomasochism’ rolls off the tongue; it draws on the history of these things and reminds us of the Marquis de Sade and his revolutionary philosophies, Sacher-Masoch and his cruel Goddess in furs.” Zach caught sight of Chris watching him, his mouth twitching. “What?”  
 _  
_“You are _so_ pretentious, Zachary,” Chris told him, and they’d ended up in a tickle fight.

Jake does not look like someone Chris would ever want to tickle fight.

 _Well, we’re not here for a tickle fight, so that works just fine._  
  
“Also, I should warn you – if I go under, into subspace, sometimes I say things. Poetry things. But just ignore it.”

“You talk a whole lot, for a sub.”

“Sorry. I just wanted to be clear on –”

“Do you go under deep?” Jake asks suddenly, and Chris feels a little relieved. So far, the guy hasn’t been interested in listening to him at all, which doesn’t seem like a good sign.

“Sometimes. Yes.”

“Well, you can have a half hour or something I guess, and I’ll go watch TV while I wait for you to come out of it. But you gotta get out of here by four, because my boyfriend’s coming back and he gets pissy if my sluts are still here when he’s around.”

_Oh, God. What are you doing? Get out. Now._

__But for some reason, he doesn’t. For some reason, Chris stays, stock still, his heartbeat getting faster and faster.

_This isn’t right. This is all wrong. Get out.  
_  
 _I don’t want to._

_He’ll hurt you._

_I know. I know that._  
  
“You gonna take your clothes off or are you gonna stand there like a fucking tree?” Jake growls.

“I’d prefer no verbal humiliation,” Chris reminds him, but starts undressing. With Zach, it always felt like a strange kind of foreplay. Right now, though it feels like nothing. The guy is eyeing him with appreciation, but Chris takes no pleasure in it, and is devoid even of the embarrassment he sometimes felt with Zach.

It is what it is. He’s here for one reason. To hurt.

He gets down to his briefs, and with no word one way or the other from Jake, removes them too. He’s completely flaccid, and he can see that Jake is disappointed.

“You can bend over the bed, over there. I’m gonna hit you for a while.” He grabs a cane from the wall, and Chris frowns.

“I’m sorry. I should have said. I don’t like canes.”

“Well, I don’t give a fuck. You’ve been moaning on and on about everything you don’t like – what about what _I_ like? I like this and I’m going to use it on you. Or you can get out. Your choice.”

“Is it soaked?” Chris asks, his voice tight.

“What the fuck do you mean, soaked?”

“Has it been in water?”

“Why the fuck would it be in water?”

Chris relaxes a little, turns around and walks to the bed. “Alright. You can use the cane. My safe word is –”

“What in the fuck is _that_?” Chris turns again to see Jake pointing at his ass.

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” It’s his goddamned _ZQ_ mark.

“Is that a tattoo?”

“No. Just a sharpie mark, from an old…boyfriend. It’s nothing, forget it.”

“Go wash it off.”

“What? Why?”

“Because for the next half hour, I own you, and I don’t want to be hitting an ass that says otherwise. What does it say, anyway? N something?”

Chris feels a surge of red rage and starts to breathe a little faster. He walks back to his clothes and starts pulling them on. “First of all, it wouldn’t come off with soap and water anyway, and second, even if it could, I wouldn’t take it off, because third, you don’t own me. We agreed to a power exchange and that’s all. But I’m done. I’m leaving. You’re not safe, and you’re not hitting me.”

“I’m not safe? Fuck you, bitch. You’re the little pussy who likes getting fucked up.”

 _Don’t say anything, just go_. But he can’t help it. He can’t. “You are a fucking moron, and it actually _pains_ me to know that there are people as stupid as you in the world.”

He just has time to hear Jake muttering something about _show you pain_ before the cane is whipping into his face and cracking against his nose. Chris staggers back, holding his face in agony, until a fist hits him square in the gut, and he crumples to the ground, winded.

He manages to crawl a few yards before the cane lands on him again, hard across the small of his back, where Zach never hit him, ever, because he said it was far too dangerous, and all Chris can think is _this guy is going to rupture my kidneys or kill me in some other way, and I am going to die here, on his dirty carpet, and I will never see Zach again._

He rolls over and kicks out hard with a bare foot, feels a satisfying connection with the guy’s knee. Jake screams in agony, and Chris takes the moment to scramble up and stagger towards the front door. Every horror movie he’s ever seen is playing in his mind, but he makes it to the car without Jake even reappearing in the doorway. He’s surprised for a moment to remember it’s still only the afternoon, and he has to blink a few times to adjust his eyes to the light.

Chris floors it out of the driveway, his heart hammering. He has to pull over a couple of miles down the road, open the door so he can throw up. When he looks at himself in the mirror, his nose is streaming blood and he has bruises coming up on his cheek. A small, dark part in the back of his brain wonders how Zach might like the look. He wouldn’t care for the technique, of course, but the outcome, maybe –

 _That’s not fair. He would_ never _hit you in the face._  
  
“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.” He drops his forehead to the steering wheel. “No. No. No crying, not now, not ever.”

He has to go somewhere. He has to move, to drive, keep going – but any one of his friends will freak if they see him like this. And he’s left his shoes behind, his favorite Chucks. The thought upsets him, a bone-deep sadness at the loss.

He’s only been there once before, but somehow, thankfully, he remembers how to get there. A modern office, discreet, unmarked. There is no one in the waiting room except the receptionist, a statuesque ice-blonde with a tasteful silver collar.

“I don’t have an appointment,” he says awkwardly to her. “But I’ve been here before.” She doesn’t even raise her eyebrows at his state, simply smiles and asks his name, tells him to please have a seat, and brings him an ice pad for his nose. It’s the same kind Zach always used.

And then _she_ comes out, reading a file, looking as beautiful and serious and untouchable as last time he saw her – the doctor. _Zach’s_ doctor. He lowers the ice pad, so at least he doesn’t look like a complete idiot. She glances at him once, twice, turns to the receptionist.

“I think we’ll reschedule those last two appointments, Adrianna.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s Christopher, isn’t it?” the doctor says to him. “Or do you prefer Chris?”

Chris wants to reply, but his words get caught up around his tongue, and he can only look with mute pleading at her.

“Christopher,” she says. “Please come with me.”

When they enter her office – as restrained and elegant as she is, a few burgundy tones and a Persian rug – he finds his voice again. “I didn’t mean to–”

“Don’t even give it another thought. I had some very dull patients this afternoon. You’ve given me the perfect excuse.” Her accent is clipped, faintly foreign.

“Thank you.”

He follows her into the examination room, starting to wonder what in the hell he’s doing. But he obediently sits on the gurney and takes off his shirt.

“Was this consensual?” she asks, touching her fingers lightly to his face. Chris shrugs. Then it hits him – for some of her patients, this kind of thing _is_ consensual.

“I guess not.”

“Who did this to you, please?”

“It wasn’t – it’s not…Not him.”

“Of course not. He would never do anything like this.”

“That’s what _I_ kept telling him,” Chris says before thinking.

The doctor looks into his eyes, and Chris feels like he’d never be able to hide anything from her, even his most shameful and terrible secrets and desires. “I’d like a name, if possible,” she asks gently.

“Why? I don’t want to press charges or anything.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m the fool who went. Went into his house, even though I knew something could happen. And I kind of provoked him. I deserved it.”

She looks sternly at him. “Christopher, you did not deserve any of this. What has been done to you was done without your consent. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“Yes,” he sighs. “Alright. It wasn’t my fault.” He looks at her, so calm and unflinching and beautiful, and all he can think of is Keats.

_I saw pale kings, and princes too,_  
 _Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;_  
 _Who cry'd – “La belle Dame sans merci_  
 _Hath thee in thrall!”_

__She smiles. “My husband likes to call me his Belle Dame sans Merci,” she says unexpectedly, and Chris blinks. She’s _married_?

Then it hits him. “Did I say that out loud?”

“You did. Now, Christopher – are you sure you don’t want to make a police report about this incident?”

“No,” he says. “I don’t want to. It would just be…I’m well known. It would turn into a thing.”

“Alright; as you wish. But I’d still like to know his name and any details you can tell me.”

“Why?”

“Because if there’s someone out there doing this, the rest of the community needs to be warned.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Sometimes, it’s not _all_ about you, Christopher.” But she’s smiling at him. It would be impossible to take offense. And so Chris smiles back and tells her all the information he has, and she writes it down in neat, blocked letters on her notepad.

“I’m going to clean your face,” she tells him. “Your nose is, thankfully, unbroken, but you’ll be quite sore for a few days. You’ll have to take over-the-counter painkillers for that. I don’t want to give you a prescription, because I’m sure –” She stops, gives a rueful shrug. “I’m sure you’ve had enough pills and potions to last a lifetime.”

“Not quite a lifetime. As it turned out.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, touching his shoulder. “We all thought you and he – well, it doesn’t matter what we thought. You lasted as long as you could.”

“What do you mean?” Chris frowns. “No. He broke up with me.”

Chris is pretty sure the doctor isn’t used to being shocked, because the way she stops and stares at him lacks any of her natural grace. “I beg your pardon?”

“ _He_ broke up with _me_.”

“Are you _sure_?”

Chris gives a sharp laugh. “Uh, yeah. Pretty damn sure.” He can’t actually blame everyone for finding it so surprising. It came out of the blue for him, too.

The doctor says, “Of course. Forgive me. It’s absolutely none of my business, in any case.” She pulls on a white medical coat, snaps on latex gloves and busies herself with cotton swabs to clear his face of blood and sweat. After his face is clean, she begins to tend the mark on his back, and her fingers are as sure and gentle as Zach’s ever were. Chris bites down on his lip to distract himself.

“If you pass any blood in your urine over the next few days, you will need to go to the ER. But it seems to me that he missed your kidneys. Did you have intercourse?” she asks.

“No. _God_ , no.” He’s doubly glad now, because he really couldn’t take having his ass examined by her, not again. He sees a brief flash of humor cross her face in the mirror.

“All done,” she says eventually, disposing of her gloves. “You can put your shirt back on. And here – you’ve been such a good boy. Have a lollipop.”

She holds out a small jar towards him, and Chris grins, winces at the pain. “A lollipop?”

“These aren’t just any old lollipops. I have them specially shipped from San Francisco. And I only give them to my very favorite patients.”

Chris feels that familiar surge of pride in himself that he used to have when he pleased Zach. He picks one, creamy-colored and enticing. But the moment he puts it in his mouth – “What _is_ this?”

The doctor, taking off her white coat, glances over. “Chai flavor. I’m sorry, do you not like – Christopher, what _is_ it?”

It’s too much. He feels grief well up in his throat and makes a choking, hacking noise. The doctor immediately hops up on the gurney next to him. “Come here,” she says, and for a moment it’s completely weird, and he wants to push her away, but she pulls his head into her shoulder, and he cries into her cream silk blouse until it’s soaked and slightly bloody from his nose again, and sticking to both of them. His lollipop has glued itself to her collar, and she peels it off. “You haven’t been taking care of yourself, Christopher.”

“I guess I was just used to him doing it.” He sounds all stuffy.

“Too used to it, perhaps,” she says, sliding off the bed. She turns to stroke her fingers over his cheek, wiping away the tears, and then absently raises her wet fingertips to her mouth in a gesture so Zach-like that Chris’s heart falters.

She stops, her fingers an inch away from her lips, and looks vaguely astonished at herself. But then she smiles at Chris. “The bathroom is over there – I’ll give you a moment. Once you’re ready, please join me back in my office. I think we need to have a little chat.”

 _That sounds unpleasant_ , Chris thinks. But once his head stops throbbing so much, he gets up and steps into the bathroom, splashes his face with cold water. When he returns to the office, the doctor has changed her blood-stained blouse for a fitted red sweater.

“I’m sorry – I’ll pay for the dry cleaning, or whatever,” he says.

“Don’t worry about it at all. Have a seat.” She’s at her desk, waving to the chair in front of it. Chris obeys, hoping that she won’t be too mean to him. “Could you tell me, please, what you’ve been doing since he broke off the relationship?”

Chris thinks for a moment. He wants to tell her everything. Everything. “Can I tell you about what happened between us?”

“Of course, Christopher, if you want to.”

So Chris relates everything. His research and his questions to Zach, and the argument they had after the play. The insult about his accent, which leads to admitting the comment from the talkback woman about the same thing. His trip to Mexico, Lily, Annika, Byron…Jake.

“And do you have people in your life with whom you can discuss these things that you do? Your sexual urges?”

Chris shakes his head. “Not really.”

“I see.” She seems to be considering her words carefully. “Did he never take you into the community, to meet people?”

“No.” Chris sees her dark eyes, almost black, flash with something. Anger, or perhaps only annoyance.

“No. He did not. I see.” She’s talking more to herself than to Chris, so he says nothing in reply. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Christopher. It’s important to be able to share with others. Share experiences, swap stories.”

“Yeah. I kind of wanted to at one stage, but he…I don’t know. He didn’t seem to want to go back. He didn’t want to take me.”

“I _see_ ,” she says sharply, for the third time, and then closes her eyes. “I do beg your pardon. I don’t mean to criticize him. I’m sure he did what he thought was best. And as for you, Christopher, tell me, are you comfortable? Do you feel comfortable in your own skin?”

It’s a strange question, but in here, in this quiet, well-appointed office with soft lighting and a painting on the wall that Chris is pretty sure is a very expensive original, it makes immediate sense.

“Not always. I never knew before that I liked this kind of stuff. Sometimes I feel like there’s something wrong with me, that it can’t be healthy to be this way. To love pain and blood and – to want to please…It’s like I’m living in a dream, and sometimes I wake up for a second and I realize how crazy it all is, how it doesn’t really make sense. But when I’m dreaming, it makes perfect sense.”

“Dreams have their own logic, don’t they?” She reaches for a pad of paper and a pen. “Jean-Jacques Rousseau was a masochist,” she tells him casually. “Have you ever read him?”

“A little. Not for a long time.” _What the fuck does Rousseau have to do with anything?_

“He believed his masochism stemmed from his mother’s death. She died giving birth to him.”

“Great,” Chris snorts.

“Do you think he was wrong?”

“Well, it seems unlikely.”

“I agree with you. But the point is, many great minds have struggled with these issues.”

“Who else?”

She considers. “Foucault was involved in the gay sadomasochist scene in San Francisco.”

“Foucault taught at Berkeley for while.” For some reason, the thought brightens his heart a little. “ _I_ went to Berkeley. But he was way before my time.”

The doctor smiles at him. “So, you see. You’re in fine company.”

There’s something he wants to ask, so badly, and he can’t think of a way to put it without offending the doctor, but he has to ask. “When I went to a therapist to research for my role, she said it was a mental disorder, sadomasochism.”

“And perhaps it is. But who can say that another is mad?”

 _That’s it?_ Chris thinks. _That’s your answer? We’re all mad here?_ He feels guilty when she looks into his eyes searchingly.

“We _may_ be mad, but that is not an excuse to be destructive, to ourselves or others. This Jake – his behavior is completely unacceptable. But, Christopher – I’m afraid that yours is not a positive thing either. You are engaging in self-destructive behaviors. I _know_ that you know this.”

“I was just trying to–”

“I understand why you’re doing it.”

“I miss him.” He’s starting to tear up again. Ridiculous.

“Do you still love him?” Her voice is as gentle as a summer breeze. He wants to lie, but he can’t.

“Yes.”

“Then I want you to promise me something. I want you to remove yourself from the dating game for three months. Three months from today. Will you do that?”

“What good would it do?”

“You have a broken heart, Christopher. You need to give it time to heal. If I could just stick a Bandaid on it for you, I would. But I can’t; time is the only thing that will help. And reckless behaviors – the things you’ve been doing – are only going to make the process more difficult.” She scribbles again on her notepad. “You strike me as someone who enjoys lists, yes?”

“I guess.”

“I’m prescribing you this. You should take my advice.” She rips the paper off and holds it out to him. “Trust me. I’m a doctor. And I’m also your friend.”

Chris feels his smile start to return as he reads the paper.

 _1) Get up every day by 8 am at the latest and make your bed. You may sleep in on Sundays, but not past 10 am._  
 _2) Shower and dress every day._  
 _3) Get fresh air and exercise daily._  
 _4) Allow one hour a day to remember and feel bad – but only one hour._  
 _5) Spend time with close friends and family._  
  
“New rules to live by? I think I could use them, actually. Thank you.” He hesitates. “You don’t think I need therapy or something? Psychoanalysis? Or…medication?”

“Psychoanalysis has its uses, of course, but it can sometimes do more damage than good. I think you know what I mean by that.” Chris thinks about Zach, and his own brief foray, and nods. “We can discuss therapy in the future, if things don’t get better for you, and I will be happy to refer you to professionals who specialize in this area. I would prefer not to prescribe medication for something that I believe is a transitive state. But what I _would_ like you to do is come back to see me if you feel worse, physically or emotionally, or if things don’t improve over the next ten days or so. And call me immediately if you’re thinking of doing yourself in.”

“Okay,” Chris says, and can’t help but feel faintly amused at her practicality.

“After the three months are up, if you find you still want the same things you want now, come back to see me again. I will help you explore safely. But in the meantime, _please_ promise me you won’t find a random stranger on Craigslist to beat you.”

Chris gives one of the first genuine smiles he’s given for weeks. “How did you know…”

She quirks her mouth.

“I promise,” Chris tells her.

“I will hold you to that, Christopher. And now you may have another lollipop. I’ll pick this time – my favorite. Tangerine and chili.”

It tastes a lot better than it sounds, Chris finds. He stops at Adrianna’s desk to try to pay or give insurance details, but she waves him away. “No charge, sweetie. She says you’re a friend.” Adrianna is bright and sunny and beautiful, and Chris starts to remember what it felt like to be _happy_. “You take care, now.”

“I will.” He actually means it.

  
***

  
The next few days are better. Chris follows the doctor’s instructions, although he finds it difficult to stick to only one hour of feeling bad. His family holds him a birthday barbecue, and are horrified at the state of his face, but he reassures them as much as he can. Katie, evidently, can see a change in him, because after interrogating him, she switches sides and starts defending him to their parents.

At home, he cleans his apartment thoroughly and stacks the dishwasher. He does load after load of laundry and packs away Zach’s _Rock Band_ stuff for the Wii. Zach lost interest in it after Chris practiced more often and started winning against him, but Chris has been holding it for him. He decides he can drop it off at Joe’s one day. Preferably when Joe isn’t around.

He has one more thing to do – he’s been avoiding it with everything in him, but it has to be done.

He opens the pantry and looks at them – a full box of cookie things that he bought wholesale for Zach. He was going to send some to New York every week, but now…now he never wants to look at cookie things again. He sweeps the box into a plastic bag, ties it off and trashes it.

Later that week he calls Patrick and spends some time with him. Some of his old friends seem to have taken pity on him and are finally calling, but he feels uncomfortably certain that it’s just because they think he’s, as Dave puts it when he calls, got all the gay out of his system.

“Sorry, man – I know things were kind of weird between us,” Dave tells him, after dropping that phrase casually into the conversation. “But you know, we should hang out.”

“Dave, things are always going to be weird between us. Don’t call me again.”

Hanging up on him gives Chris such a pure sense of satisfaction and rightness that he doesn’t need his hour to feel bad that day after all.

Karl is back in town for promotional work, and Chris enjoys spending time with him. Karl doesn’t talk about Zach at all, and chats instead about his family, and small projects he’s been involved with back in New Zealand. He’s so relaxed and content that it rubs off on Chris, and even after Karl leaves, Chris finds himself counting his blessings when he wakes up in the mornings, instead of his losses.

He stops yoga, but keeps running, and starts doing weights again to try to build up some bulk. He’s way too skinny right now.

One day he calls Corey, who is still in LA.

“Pine! What are you up to?”

“Not a lot. You know how it is. Actually – I was thinking. I’ve never actually gone indoor rock-climbing.”

“Me neither, buddy!”

“But you suggested it,” Chris says, bewildered.

“Well, I figured those big strong arms of yours would be an advantage for spotting me.”

“Okay, come on, admit it. You _are_ hitting on me, aren’t you?” Chris jokes. It might actually be the first joke he’s made since the break-up, he thinks.

Corey laughs and laughs. “My nefarious plan. It’s true, though, man, I’d totally go gay for you. Or bi, at least. I’ll set up the rock-climbing, okay?”

“Okay.” Chris smiles, and the smile sticks even after he’s hung up.

That night, around nine, Chris is reading in bed when there’s a knock at the door. He’s not expecting anyone, but for all he knows, it’s Corey, inviting himself over again. And right now he kind of likes the idea of hanging out with Corey, because it’s easy, fun.

He swings out of bed and pulls on track pants. The thump comes again, more insistent this time. He looks through the peep hole, but the light outside is broken, has been for several days, and all he can see is a shadowy figure. For a moment he wildly considers the possibility that Jake has found out where he lives, and come to terrorize him.

Unlikely at best, he decides, and opens the door.

It’s Zach. He’s steadying himself against the door frame but swaying still, and reeking of – something alcoholic. Scotch, Chris recognizes after a moment. Zach pushes himself upright, a gesture that Chris thinks is supposed to be casual, but it’s ruined by the way he has to hang on to the doorway for balance. His hair is longer than in the New York pictures, growing back, and he’s wearing a striped shirt and dirty jeans.

Zach smirks. “Can Christopher come out to play?"


End file.
